Reflections of the Eldest
by iarwainbenadar
Summary: I've always been fascinated by Tom Bombadil, precisely because he is such a mysterious figure. This is basically just a speculative exploration of his possible identity and what it would be like to view the events of the War of the Ring and the Quest of Mount Doom from his perspective.
1. Chapter 1

The breeze was fresh and cool, rustling the leaves ever so slightly, providing delicate accompaniment to the soft hoots of owl and the gentle flowing of the river. River-woman's daughter, that was what he had called her. His wife. He smiled faintly as he recalled their meeting, and the recounting he had given of it to his young guests. Young? Hobbits often had a youthful appearance, but these were not children by any means. No - not children - yet so they seemed to him, who...how had he put it? Oh yes: "Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn...He knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless". He knew the name he was known by to the elves: Iarwain Ben-adar, they called him. Eldest and Fatherless.

The words he had spoken to the hobbits ran through his mind: "the dark under the stars when it was fearless". He wondered if that would mean anything to hobbits. Fondly, he recalled their innocent faces. Every night was fearless to them; they had never known the terrors and the evils that lurked hidden in shadow and twilight.

Tom knew them. Even here, tucked away from the world in blessed seclusion, he knew them. He knew of the Dark Lord's rising, of his plans to ensnare Middle-earth as others had planned before him. So many plans, so much cunning, so much greed and anger and malice...

This was never part of the plan. This was not what he had envisioned so many Ages ago, before the world was. This was not what he had dreamt of when he wrote the Music of the Ainur.

He could still hear it, brief parts of it at least, echoing in the stillness of the night. He heard it in the rustling of the leaves in the trees above him, in the breeze that seemed to carry with it a thousand mournful sighs, in the gentle sound of the river as it hurried on its way. "None has ever caught him yet, For Tom, he is the master. His songs are stronger songs, And his feet are faster." Indeed, his songs were strong: strong enough to call a world into being, strong enough to call a bird into being, strong enough to grow a flower, and strong enough to grow a nation. He remembered when he had sung at the world's dawn, the magnificent vision he had for his creation, the rapture and the excited, joyful fervour with which he had written that most delightful and splendid symphony. Everything had been so perfect: the rich harmonies, like threads of a glorious tapestry, weaving in and out, suspension and resolution, imitation and repetition, all combining to produce the most magnificent piece of music ever to enter into the heart's wildest imaginations. Even Morgoth, striving against the predominant melodies in his vain and selfish ambition, had played an equally important part in that Symphony of Creation. Together they had sung, him and all the Ainur, and their song had been glorious, and a sense of awe had overcome them all in the magnificent, sacred work in which they were engaged, singing into being trees, plants, flowers, birds, mountains, elves, men, dwarves...hobbits.

It had been such a pleasant vision, such an incredible world, such a flawless plan. And somehow, though he could neither see nor understand it, he knew that this was part of it. Just as the clashed harmonies and sharp dissonances of Morgoth had been an integral part of that first, primal song, so the foul, harsh, guttural utterances of the orcs which now plagued the land played an essential part in the grand symphony of current times, as necessary as the rustling of the leaves, the hooting of the owls and the flowing of the river. For that song had never ended: the symphony was only part-way through, and Tom no longer knew its structure. He had tried several times to regain that perfect knowledge he had had in the beginning, when he had seen every part of the glorious music, anticipating every fall, every pause, every cadence, seeing every detail and understanding how it all fit, somehow, into the magnificent, flawless whole. But his understanding had been fleeting: one brief moment of wonderful comprehension, followed by a long (too long, he thought) lifetime of confusion and an inability to see how the various melodies interwove.

He still had hope, still had trust in that one moment of perfect understanding, still had faith in the Symphony of the World. He did not understand how the atrocities committed by the servants of Sauron in the dark and secret places of Mordor fit into that magnificent vision, but he trusted that, somehow, they did, and one day, he would understand.

They would never forgive him, he knew that. He was not sure he would ever forgive himself. he could bind Sauron as easily as Old Man Willow; not even his malice and cunning was a match for Tom's songs. He could not even justify to himself why he shouldn't, except for his trust that in a way beyond even his comprehension, this too was part of that most perfect of symphonies. He hoped that, one day, he would understand. He hoped that, one day, they would all understand.

A sad smile flickered across his face as he recalled the words he had heard Frodo singing not all that long ago: "The Road goes ever on and on Down from the door where it began. Now far ahead the road has gone, And I must follow, if I can, Pursuing it with weary feet, Until it meets some larger way, Where many paths and errands meet. And whither then? I cannot say". How very un-hobbit-like, to sing of roads and walking and unpredictability. He sensed there was something important in those lines, in that innocent hobbit walking-song, something very deep and profound. Didn't they all follow their own Road? And if the rumours were to be believed, many paths and errands would indeed meet, and in the near future, too. He sighed. "And whither then? I cannot say", he murmured. He doubted there were many who could.

All this talk of path and roads awoke in his mind another memory, words he had spoken to Frodo in answer to one or another of his seemingly unending questions: "We heard news of you, and learned that you were wandering," Tom had answered. "We guessed you'd come ere long down to the water: all paths lead that way, down to Withywindle".

Withywindle. If there was any part of this world that resembled what he thought he had envisioned in that first, primeval Song, it was the River Withywindle. That's what he had imagined the world would be like: one large extension of the Withywindle, where birds sang as gently as a summer breeze and the fish splashed as merrily as an Elvish dance.

That was where he had met Goldberry, and sometimes, when the sun was high in the sky and the breeze blew blissfully over the long blades of grass, he would go down there to gather water lilies for her. Sometimes, when he sat on the banks, with his feet dangling in the water, he almost felt like he could once again hear the Music in its fullness, and he would sit and listen, enchanted by brief snatches of interweaving melodies and familiar harmonies into a peaceful, serene reverie. He had still never been able to regain the full, glorious understanding he had once possessed, but generally, the world made a little more sense as he sat and reflected by the Withywindle.

"All paths lead that way, down to Withywindle". He had sounded so jolly and confident as he asserted that, in a desperate attempt to mask his secret uncertainty and confusion. He hoped it was true. By the earth and the trees and the log on which he sat, he hoped so.

He could see the first rays of the morning sun peeking through the trees, heralding what he hoped would be a pleasant morning. Soon the hobbits must be on their way, back on their Road to Rivendell and who knew where else. They were not the only ones on a journey. He knew the armies of Mordor were assembling, and legions of orcs (and worse) were walking the Roads to Mordor and Isengard. In Rohan and Gondor, forces were gathering, drawn on by a foreboding awareness of troubles to come. Even the birds were not following their usual patterns of migration, flying where they ought not, not that anyone else would notice.

Tom stood up and a heavy sigh escaped his slightly parted lips. He must not intervene in these unfoldings. The Music had left no room for improvement, and he knew within his soul that his meddlings would never enhance it. All he could do was sit and listen to its developments with rapt attention, and hope that, in some way beyond his understanding, all these paths would indeed lead to Withywindle.


	2. Chapter 2

The next year passed slowly and with a distinct sense of uneasiness within Tom, which was reflected throughout the forest itself. The badgers hid deep within their setts and rarely emerged even when Tom was passing by, singing every now and then with a "hey dol" and a "derry dol" in a desperate attempt to lighten his heart and rid the forest of the all-pervading gloomy atmosphere.

He went down to the Withywindle more often than ever in that year, to clear his mind and reflect upon the menacing, foreboding tidings his messengers too often brought him. One morning a small raven flew up to him, perched on a branch, cocked its head, and announced gravely: "Olorin, he who is called Gandalf the Grey, is fallen". Without speaking another word, or waiting for any word of thanks, the raven flew away and was soon gone beyond visible sight.

Tom stood for a while, staring blankly at the beech tree in front of him. Then the smile he had worn in a brave attempt to face the day with cheerful optimism gradually faded; his face fell and at length he turned, went into the house and locked himself in one of the rooms within. He did not emerge until late the following evening.

His heart was heavier after that. His messengers brought him frequent news on the progress of the ringbearer and other happenings of the world, but the things they told him did little to lighten his ever-sombre mood, and he knew that soon Frodo would pass into Mordor, where not even the bravest of his messengers dared enter. Then the Ring would be completely lost to Tom's knowledge.

The news of Gandalf's return was a brief ray of sunshine in the long, bleak, unforgiving darkness he felt hopelessly lost in, but in light of the growing strength of Mordor it did little to ameliorate his foreboding.

He could feel Goldberry growing more distant from him every day, as he began to spend more and more time alone at the Withywindle instead of with her. He invited her to come with him, and she did, often, despite the cool chill of the river. Yet they rarely spoke and he became increasingly lost in his own deep musings by the riverside.

"Why did you take me away from here, Tom?" she asked one day, drying herself after bathing in the river while he stared into the water, his brow furrowed in deep thought.

He started with surprise. "What?" he murmured faintly.

"When we met. You took me away from the river to live with you deeper in the Forest. Why?" There was no resentment in her voice, no bitterness, merely curiosity and a desire to understand. "You had a small house there, but we could just as easily have built another here. I was quite contented and you seem to enjoy it here more than anywhere else in the Forest. I never questioned it at the time. But why leave?"

Tom's face grew serious and heavy. He cocked his head to one side and leaned it on his shoulder while he considered her question, splashing his feet in the water somewhat absent-mindedly.

"Here, I cannot be your husband," he replied at length. "Here, I am Eru, the One, not Tom Bombadil. As I sit here, by the river, I see the strands of the Universe weaving in and out, and I marvel at the beauty of the tapestry it creates. I sit here, entranced by the faint whisperings of the Music of Creation that sometimes reach my ears. If I stayed here, that is all I would do. I would be lost in the progression of the Music, lost in the unfolding of the tapestry; I would sit here, a useless wretch, neither eating nor drinking, merely listening for faint, brief snatches of melody and harmony, unable to turn away, like a starving dog that sits whining and begging by his master's table for an occasional, tiny scrap of food, and it would benefit nobody. The Symphony of the World continues to play, and I have learned that it is futile to try and anticipate what it will do next. Nobody can tell how the Music will play out. Not even I. Not even here." His voice became gradually softer and eventually faded into a whisper as he stared once more into the depths of the Withywindle, lost again in deep thought.

As Spring became Summer, Tom's heart lightened somewhat. He always enjoyed Sumer, and the sunshine certainly made his journeys to the Withywindle much more pleasant. One evening, after spending the day swimming in the River with Goldberry (something he had been too heavy-hearted to do for many months) and reflecting on the events of the world as they had transpired over the past year, he made his way home humming an old tune he had picked up from Farmer Maggot's family a few years ago - some nonsense about the Man in the Moon that Tom suspected was actually much more than mere nonsense at its heart. Suddenly, he noticed the area around him become markedly darker as a huge shadow passed over him. His melody broke off in surprise and he quickly looked up. High in the cloudless sky, an Eagle flew, crying loudly in joy with a strong voice that carried far and clear across the whole Forest and, Tom supposed, beyond.

"Well, roll me up in a lilypad and sail me to open waters!" he murmured. His face suddenly lit up with excitement and he turned to the badger who walked beside him, regarded him for a while, and then set off briskly towards home, talking excitedly all the way, half to himself and half to the badger.

"Remarkably rare to see Eagles in these parts, my friend. 'What does it mean?' I hear you ask. Well," and at this point his voice rose with barely concealed joy, "It means, my young friend, that the quest is complete. Successfully, too, I might add." His voice suddenly became more sombre, a shadow passed briefly over his face and he slowed almost to a stop. "Though not without high cost, I'll wager...Still," he continued in a lighter tone and with a cheerful grin, "cause for celebration, in my opinion!" After saying this, he left the badger and set off for home, walking briskly and with a huge smile on his face.

_Be gone, you fiend of blackest night,_

_Vanish in the dawn:_

_Night is vanquished. Let us sing_

_And revel in the morn._

_No more shall gloom and darkness reign:_

_Lifted is the billow,_

_And merry is the heart and soul_

_Of Tom Bombadillo!_

Thus singing, he arrived at home and flung open the door. "Evening, my darling. The first leaf fell today, Autumn will soon be upon us, Old Man Willow's in a bad temper again, the birds are just preparing to fly South and Sauron's vanquished. By the way, dinner smells delectable." He spoke very briskly, with his characteristic playful tone that had not been heard in the Forest for far too many months.

Goldberry, rather taken aback by all this, asked incredulously: "What?"

"Dinner. It smells delicious, my dear. I am truly famished."

"No, no. The other thing. Before that."

"Oh. The Ring is destroyed. Sauron is defeated. An Eagle passed by not an hour ago shouting out the news to all who know how to listen. I expect Olorin will be along in a few days to discuss the whole business, if I know him at all."

Goldberry was silent for a long while. Then, slowly, she broke into a magnificent, full-hearted grin. "I see," she said simply. "Well, that is good news. Very good news indeed".

"The best," he beamed back at her. They were silent for a long while, smiling at each other.

"I've missed you," she said at length.

"I know," he said simply. "I've missed you too." They fell into silence again for a long moment.

"Well," she said suddenly, "If Gandalf really is coming in the next few days, as you assure me he is, then we have some tidying up to do. And don't expect I shall be doing it all, Iarwain Ben-Adar. You may be the Creator of Arda, but don't think for a minute that you're excused from household chores."

With a sigh, but also a smile, he winked at her and dutifully began to sweep the floor.


	3. Chapter 3

Over the next few days, a renewed peace settled within the house and throughout the Forest. The strange, perturbing silence which had filled the woods over the past year swiftly dissipated, driven away by the cheerful chirping of the birds, the scuffling of the animals through the fallen leaves and all the other sounds which gave the Forest its old atmosphere of vitality.

Two days into this renewal, Tom sat on a log outside the house. The air was cool, crisp and clean, with a distinct scent of pine tree, most likely due to the logs he had cut earlier that morning. Suddenly, he heard a faint rustle of leaves that gradually became louder and then suddenly stopped.

"They say a lot of fresh air makes a fellow drowsy. But I'm afraid that is no excuse to sit here lounging about on a log when you have a whole garden full of vegetables ready to harvest. Or had you forgotten about them? Really, Tom, I'm beginning to fear you may be growing senile in your old age."

Rising quickly in mock indignation, Tom turned to face his guest. "Old age? Well, you'd know all about that, wouldn't you, Gandalf?" The two stood staring at each other for a moment. Then Gandalf's face broke into laughter and he smothered Tom in a firm embrace.

"It's good to see you again, my friend!"

"Not as good as it is to finally meet you, Gandalf 'the White'. I had feared you would be completely different, but from the look of things you are still as ugly as ever. Apart from the colour of your cloak, there doesn't seem to be much different. Well, you might as well come in , if my abode is not too humble to house the glory of the magnificent Gandalf the White."

"Not at all," Gandalf replied, his lips twitching into a smile. "I would be delighted". They walked into the house just as Goldberry was setting the table for lunch. "Greetings, fair river-daughter," Gandalf said, bowing his head respectfully.

"You speak almost as eloquently as your young hobbit friends, Mithrandir," Goldberry remarked with an amused smile. "Or is that name no longer appropriate, 'Grey Pilgrim'?"

"Just Gandalf will suffice, I think," he replied, smiling.

"Well then, Gandalf, would you do us the great honour of joining us for lunch?"

"Oh, believe me, the honour would be entirely mine, Lady Goldberry. There is much I wish to discuss with your good husband here, though I doubt much of it will be of any interest to him."

"On the contrary, Gandalf, I am sure it will interest him very much, though he may not show it," she said, sharing a knowing look with Tom. "But either way," she continued, "I am sure all conversation will be much more enjoyable over a little lunch. Please, sit down; I'll just bring it out now," and she disappeared into the kitchen, soon returning with large plates of ham and roast vegetables, after which they all sat down and commenced eating.

There was not much conversation for a long while following that, as everyone eagerly devoured the meals set before them, but after lunch was finished, Gandalf and Tom walked outside to sit in the modest, yet well-kept garden.

After a long silence that was comfortable and companionable rather than awkward, Tom spoke: "Well, then? What is this news that I shall find so tedious to listen to?"

Gandalf sighed. "I am sure you recall those hobbits that passed through here about a year ago."

"Hmm...yes, I think I can just about remember them," Tom replied, smiling to himself, not mentioning that they had occupied nearly every minute of his waking thoughts for the past year.

"Yes, well, I shan't bore you with the details, but the long and the short of it is that they were successful in their quest to destroy the Ring. Mordor is still full of shadows of course; I expect the darkness of Sauron's malice will never entirely disappear. Perhaps in time, though, we can learn to forget."

"Not forget," said Tom sharply. "Never forget. The only reason Sauron was able to gain such power in the first place was because the races of Middle Earth were too quick to forget the horrors that Morgoth had wrought before him".

"Morgoth?" said Gandalf wonderingly. "You truly are old, aren't you, Tom? There are very few today who remember the evil that walked the land the land in the days of Morgoth."

With a smile, Tom repeated the words he had spoken to the hobbits so many months ago: "Eldest, that's what I am. Mark my words, my friend: Tom was here before the river and the trees; Tom remembers the first raindrop and the first acorn. He made paths before the Big People, and saw the Little People arriving. He was here before the Kings and the graves and the Barrow-wights. When the elves passed westward, Tom was here already, before the seas were bent. He knew the dark under the stars when it was fearless - before the Dark Lord came from outside".

Gandalf sat in stunned silence for a while. Then: "Tom," he said. "Who are you? Really?"

Tom smiled at him. "I think you already know the answer to that, my friend."

Gandalf cleared his throat and then turned his face to gaze into the forest. "I always had suspicions, but they were mere speculations, intuitions...So it's true then? You really are Eru Iluvatar, the Creator of Arda, composer of the Ainulindale, Lord of the World, Father of elves and men alike?"

Tom's lips twitched into an amused smile and he chuckled softly. "Yes," he said. "I suppose I am. But you can call me Tom," he added with a wink.

Gandalf was silent for a long while. Finally, he spoke, and his voice was laced with bitterness: "I had expected you would be more...caring...for your own creation. I had not expected the Creator of Arda to sit tending his beehives and humming merry old jigs to himself while thousands of both the Firstborn and the Followers were slaughtered, tortured and maimed by the servants of Sauron."

"I know," said Tom softly. "And I have nothing to offer in my defence. But you're wrong to suggest that I don't care. I care very much, my friend. Very much indeed."

"Then why do you refrain from acting? You are the Master of Creation; there is no force in Middle Earth that could stand against your voice! Instead, our fate was placed in the hands of hobbits, and believe me when I say that they did more to benefit this world than I have ever known you to do".

"I believe you. And I agree. I have done very little that has been of any benefit to anybody, but you have no idea how much it killed me inside to stand by and watch while the forces of Sauron have plagued the earth. Yes, I could have acted. And you would be sincerely mistaken to suppose that I did not come very close to it at times. But believe _me_ when I say that to do so would have caused a tragedy far worse than the horrors of the past years."

"How?" Gandalf whispered incredulously. "In what possible could...?"

"I don't know." Tom stared at the ground in sorrow. "I don't know," he repeated. "But I do know that the Music of the Ainur was perfect. It left _no_ room for improvement. And what we have experienced..." here his voice faltered as he was reminded of the events of the past year. "What we have experienced is part of it," he went on. "I do not understand the part it plays. Its role in this most perfect of symphonies is beyond my comprehension. But I know it is necessary. And I hope that one day, we will understand. I'm afraid that is all I can offer."

Gandalf nodded slowly, if not entirely happy with Tom's response, at least somewhat satisfied by it and willing to give it careful consideration. "I am leaving Middle Earth, Tom," he said after a long silence. "I was sent here with a task to perform, and I've completed it."

Tom nodded in understanding. "Where will you go?" he asked curiously.

"Back to Valinor, I expect," replied Gandalf. "You should come with me, Tom," he said suddenly. "You and Goldberry. You are the One, the Father of All, the Master of Arda. You should take your place at the head of the Valar in the Undying Lands."

Tom was silent for a long while, considering this. "No," he said at length. Gandalf arched his eyebrows in surprise. "If there is one thing I have learned over the past year, Gandalf, it is never to underestimate the importance of the small and seemingly insignificant in comparison to the great and mighty," Tom explained. "You see, Gandalf, in reality it is not you, or Master Elrond, or King Aragorn that are the true heroes of this quest. It never has been the likes of you or I who are the true heroes of this world. In this epic, crucial endeavour, the true saviours were the halflings, the Little People, four ordinary, plain, simple hobbits with extraordinary courage. I think I'm beginning to understand why I haven't been able to see the Music's structure, why I haven't been able to truly understand the way it works. I've been looking in all the wrong places, listening for all the wrong things - for the great and mighty themes and the strong, sweeping melodies. In truth, I am convinced that that the key to understanding it lies in the small, subtle, humble parts, played by the most common and unassuming of instruments. _They_ are the vital components of this glorious Music. And I hope that as I sit by the Withywindle this year and listen for _them_ rather than the grand, powerful melodies, I shall begin to understand the Music once more. It is not in the Undying Lands that the true greatest heroes reside, Gandalf, nor is it there that the most important parts are played. It is here, Gandalf, in the Shire, in Middle Earth, amongst dwarves and hobbits and mortal men. So no, Gandalf. I do not belong in the great halls of Valinor. One day, perhaps, when the final note of this wondrous Music has faded. But until then, my place is here."

Slowly, a smile crept over Gandalf's face, and he stood up. "Well, Tom Bombadil, I'm beginning to think you are not a complete fool after all. I shall miss you, you know."

"I know," said Tom. "And the Shire."

"Yes," Gandalf smiled sadly. "And the Shire." Suddenly he chuckled.

"What?" asked Tom.

"All this time, and you never told me. You never once told me you were Eru Iluvatar."

"I don't see that it makes much difference. I'm just as clueless as everyone else. If you knew, you'd doubtless try to pressure me into taking action and getting involved, and I came to realise long ago that that would be disastrous."

Gandalf nodded ponderously in agreement. Then he stepped up to Tom and wrapped him in a warm embrace. "Farewell, Tom," he said.

"Goodbye, Gandalf," replied Tom.

With a nod and a final smile, Gandalf placed his hat on his head and began walking. Tom looked off into Forest and heard the rustling of the leaves become gradually softer and quieter, until eventually he could not hear them at all.

"Goodbye, Gandalf," he sighed again. "I imagine things shall be very different in this part of the world without you around. Thus ends the Third Age." He shook his head in wonder. "Never in a thousand years would I have imagined any of this." He was silent for a long time, looking deep into the Forest after Gandalf had gone. Then, suddenly, he shook himself. "I suppose I had better harvest these vegetables after all," he grumbled, and reluctantly knelt down and began work on pulling up the first row of carrots.


End file.
